Running Hot Commentfic
by Anniehow
Summary: For the prompt "Neal passing out from fever"... a lot less angsty than you'd imagine


For embroiderama, who prompted, and for ariadnes_string, who hosted (and betaed!) the h/c fever meme (which is sheer genius in and of itself)

No spoilers

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><p>His high school PE teacher had once told him that you could give your best performance –the gold medal one, the record breaking, here's-your-million-dollar-sponsorship-grade performance- in the first few hours of a light fever.<p>

There was a sound possibility that it had all been bull; after all, the guy had had a frankly unhealthy obsession with dodge ball, but Neal had gone over and over this little nugget of advice in his head so many times that he'd started to believe it.

Or maybe his temperature was even higher than he'd estimated.

One way or the other, when the team from Washington arrived at their floor and Peter introduced him as the division's C.I. (and that kinda hurt, he was _Peter's_ C.I.), Neal had a split second to decide whether to just sit back down and melt in the background or charm his way center-stage, and before he'd even realized what he was doing the words "ready to hear how we broke this case wide open?" were marching confidently out of his lips in the company of a twinkle in his bright eyes.

ooo

Peter was glaring at him, the kind of steady, quiet glower that promised pain and suffering; at one point Neal was pretty sure he saw him mouthing the words 'endless tax evasion frauds', but maybe that was just his imagination messing with him.

He was feeling great. Or maybe not great, but like he was floating a foot above ground, the entire team of special agents flown in from Washington hanging on his every word while he detailed his brilliant contribution to the case; his old coach was a _genius_ - this was truly one of his best performances yet.

If he'd been in a sounder state of mind he might have noticed that Diana was as supremely unimpressed as Peter, and that Clinton was shaking his head minutely and looking faintly incredulous.

So, ok: the _way_ they'd cracked the case was not, strictly speaking, text-book FBI procedure, and the reason he'd managed to draw all the connections they'd needed relied on rather a larger number than usual of former crimes he might have allegedly committed; also, there was the minor detail that some of the secondary evidence they'd needed had officially simply turned up on an anonymous tip, because... well. They were never going to solve this otherwise, as evidenced by the Washington team who had been banging their heads against a wall for the past eighteen months over this case.

Neal felt he had earned his preening time, 'lack of proper procedure' or not.

"That is," one of the outside agents stammered, obviously finding it difficult to pick his words, "that is- huh- frankly that is pretty, er, different."

Neal beamed. It was nice to get proper recognition, especially from Peter's colleagues and in front of Peter.

Speaking of Peter...

"Neal," he said, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder, "my office. Now."

Neal fixed his grin on his face and let himself be herded away from his audience, but not without promising a detailed account of the actual arrest (there had been a rooftop pursuit) and adding an extra wink for the benefit of the rookie who'd sidled up to the group to listen to the story. He was gratified to see her blush.

Peter marched him all the way into the chair in front of his desk, closed the door to his office and then spent a long minute just glowering, before finally hissing "What the hell was that, Neal?"

Neal wasn't really up to a reply: first of all, he felt that the answer was pretty self-evident, and Peter was a smart boy who could figure it out on his own. Second, sitting down had made him realize just how much effort standing up had involved, and thirdly, he was starting to feel thirsty.

Luckily Peter only used the question as a starting point for a good righteous rant about keeping his head down and toeing the line and not getting thrown back in jail over his stupid ego, which required Neal only to remain silent and appear contrite.

After a bit, though, Peter started to repeat his name, over and over, until Neal's brain stopped contemplating the idea of floating away and he forced it to focus.

"Neal? Are you even listening to me?" Peter was saying, exasperated.

Neal blinked at him a couple of times, decided that he needed to get Peter to understand his point of view and that the best way to do that was to get eye-to-eye with him and geared himself up for an encore performance, rising smoothly to his feet and planting both hands on the desk to mirror Peter's pose.

Unfortunately, as soon as he achieved an upright position, his vision blacked out and a low roaring sound started in his ears; he felt dizzy, but the desk felt solid under his palms and he locked his knees and elbows and just waited for the feeling to pass. Dimly, he was still aware of Peter standing in front of him, saying "whatever it is you have to say, say it now."

The dizziness was getting worse; his vision wasn't returning. It felt like an eternity before he managed to enunciate clearly and slowly "I disagree: I'm about to pass out."

Something stilled in the room, despite everything else starting to spin. He felt a hand gripping his bicep just as something hard dealt a glancing blow to the side of his face, waking him up just in time to experience smacking into the floor in full detail.

"Neal!" Peter called, practically leaping over his desk to get to him.

"Ow," Neal replied, lying fully awake now on the floor. Adrenaline had shot through his entire body, making his heart jackrabbit and drenching him in an icy sweat. He shuddered, just as Peter knelt next to him and gingerly touched his aching jaw.

"Ow!" Neal repeated, turning away and bringing a hand up with the intention of slapping Peter's away, but somehow he ended up gripping his wrist just to hold on to something warm and steady. Pinpricks had washed down his body and were now being replaced by goose-bumps.

"What the hell was that? Are you all right? Hey!" To keep him from squirming, Peter put both his hands on Neal's neck, the curve of his thumbs pressing against his pulse points. Neal didn't even have time to reply before Diana burst through the door, pretty much echoing Peter's questions. Hot on her heels were a couple of the DC agents, plus the rookie he'd flirted with earlier. She was looking especially concerned, which was nice, but also increasingly horrified, which was downright embarrassing. She actually offered to call an ambulance, which made Neil want to hide behind Peter's desk, barring any obliging holes opening in the ground to swallow him.

"I'm ok," he tried to explain, "I just got a bit dizzy. Look," he levered himself up to a sitting position, even though he didn't really feel like getting up off the floor, "I'm fine, really." He felt blood rushing everywhere –his face was so hot he must have been blushing like a champ- and just like that the world tilted minutely and he thought he might be about to give a repeat performance.

But Peter clapped a hand to the back of his head and forced him to lean forward until his forehead was between his knees, and for the second time that day everything snapped right back into focus, this time blessedly with less pain involved. And then Peter shooed everyone out of his office, which was a big relief even though there was still the small matter of the transparent glass walls.

"So," Peter said conversationally, fingers idly drumming on the nape of Neal's neck, "you seem to be spiking a fever."

Neal tried to straighten, but Peter's hand kept him down. "Huh, I suppose I do. Am. Or something."

"Dammit, Neal, were you even going to tell me? You're not an indentured servant, you know. You can take a morning off if you're sick. Did you eat something bad?"

"No," he admitted, "I haven't had much of an appetite. A cup of tea this morning, and... that's it."

"Ok, so that explains the swooning, maybe. Come on, I'll get Diana to hunt down a thermometer and then you're going home." He clapped him on the shoulder, finally letting him straighten his head. Going back to the apartment and crawling in bed sounded like a plan.

"I didn't 'swoon', that was not... But I performed," Neal rebutted, "best performances with a fever. What did you think of it?"

Peter levelled him a strange look. "Ok. I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean, but now I'm definitely driving you back and pouring a bottle of Tylenol down your throat."

"I knew it, the coach was full of crap," Neal said darkly, shaking his head and letting Peter pull him to his feet. "You don't need to drive me back; you have the team from DC and everything."

"I think I really do," Peter said lightly, ushering him towards the bull-pen. "I'll use it as an excuse to have lunch with El, so everyone will be happy."

"But, but... the case! You solved it, they didn't!" He listed slightly to the right on the stairs but Peter grabbed his left arm and straightened him without comment. "Don't you want to..."

"An unexpected lunch with my wife will be quite an adequate reward, Neal. Come on, I promise I'll tell the rookie you were eyeing that you passed out from a manly fever and exhaustion over bravely solving a case, how's that sound?"

"After that display I doubt she'll believe you," Neal replied morosely.

Epilogue:

Neal was right: the rookie hadn't believed Peter.

"I can help you," she was saying, eyes wide and earnest, shining with the light of righteousness, "you have rights. Burke shouldn't be treating you like that."

"You really, really got the wrong idea," Neal was trying to explain, except he was finding it difficult to keep a straight face.

"You don't have to be afraid. I know you think he's the only one keeping you out of prison, but that doesn't give him a right to hit you like that. The Bureau frowns heavily on agent brutality. You will be protected. When he slammed you into that table..." she pursed her lips, shaking her head, "I'm only sorry I was the only one to see it for what it really was, that you had to suffer through this for so long. But I promise I'll help you."

So maybe he was never going to get a date out of her, especially once he'd managed to clear all this mess. But he was going to be able to tease Peter about this _forever_.


End file.
